meant to be
by zavira
Summary: a series of steve x bucky soulmate aus
1. it was always you

_James._

Steve traces over the haphazard script, the wide loop of the _J_ , all the way through to the way the _s_ trails off at the end. He has yet to meet a James, surprisingly enough.

It's a common name, after all, and by this point …

Well, by this point, Steve hoped he'd have numerous James' to scrutinize. To meet, to date, to figure out which one was _the_ James.

But he doesn't.

He's always been very sociable, and as his friends, one by one, find out who they're meant to be with, Steve smiles along with them, lets himself hope. But as their smiles are eternal, his is not.

 _James._

Someday, he tells himself. Someday.

Bucky refuses to look at his soulmate tattoo.

He hates the idea of it, hates how this one mark is supposed to determine his entire life. The most important choice he is ever going to have to make, and it's made for him.

When he was younger, before he could even decipher it, he caught a smudge of writing in his peripheral vision. Then he wrapped it in a bandage, tightly, and never looked at it again.

He's never been the type to lie, so when people ask him about it, Bucky just levels them with a look.

"I don't want to know who it is," he says, every time.

Though really, he's not sure if that's a lie or not anymore.

* * *

Steve is pretty sure he's in love with Bucky Barnes.

But he can't be.

Because Bucky is not James, not even remotely close. But Bucky is so much more than this unnamed James, and every time Steve sees him James becomes nothing more than a far-off memory.

Forget soulmates, forget James, Steve thinks every time he catches Bucky's brilliant smile, every time their eyes meet and his heart skips a beat.

But he knows, deep down, that's not how it works.

* * *

Bucky wants to check. The bandage is itchy, so very, very itchy. To the point where it almost burns.

Hot, almost uncomfortably so, like the way his face feels, burning crimson every time Steve Rogers casts a glance in his direction.

Steve.

That's it.

That's _his_ choice.

Bucky doesn't know quite how to feel when he dares to look, and the name _Steve,_ in careful, practiced print, is written across his arm.

He's elated at who it is, ecstatic that this is who he's meant to be with.

But disappointed, because, in the end, it really wasn't up to him.

It never was.

* * *

They've been together a year when it all breaks apart.

"Steve," Bucky says one day, his voice devoid of the casual humor it so often holds when they're with each other.

Steve's head snaps up. He can tell this is something big, something serious. "Yeah?"

"I just wanted to … " Bucky trails off.

Steve waits, expectant.

But never in a million years would he have been ready for what happens next.

As Bucky shrugs off his jacket, turning his arm so that Steve can see it.

His name, right there.

 _It can't be._

 _"No."_ It's like he's underwater, the sounds are distorted in his ears. "No, Bucky, you don't understand —"

How can Bucky have him when he has _James?_

Steve wonders if it's a mistake.

If the universe even makes mistakes like that.

"I'm sorry, Bucky, I just —"

Bucky doesn't answer.

Steve's words fall away, as the devastation hits him all at once.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again, later, once he's finally found his voice.

Bucky realizes now why he hates those damn tattoos so much.

They're wrong, his choice is wrong, his fate is wrong —

It's all _wrong._

"Steve," he asks sometime later. It could have been hours, could have been days, could have been months since their last conversation.

Neither of them really know anymore.

"Who do you have?"

Steve's eyes meet him. It takes a long, long time for the words to come.

 _"James."_

And James Buchanan Barnes lets a smile spread across his face.


	2. blue

Bucky doesn't believe the sky is blue. How can it possibly be _blue,_ when it's always so desolately and dismally grey?

Granted, he doesn't even know what blue looks like. But everyone who can see it describes it like the most wonderful thing.

To which Bucky scoffs, every time.

A lot of it is jealousy, he'll admit. Jealousy and spite, because why do _they_ get to see the world in color when he's stuck here, searching the face of every person he meets and watching, waiting, for something that's never going to come.

For a world of vibrancy and light and beauty that he's only ever imagined.

Bucky tips his head back to look at the clouds. They're still the same, he's heard, when the shift happens. But the sky is said to be a beautiful, wondrous thing.

"You can see every color at once up there," Sam tells him after meeting Clint. "The sunsets? They're magnificent."

 _Magnificent._

And so, as the years stretch by, Bucky waits.

And waits.

And waits.

* * *

Steve's never been impatient, but the day he gets a call from Clint waxing poetic about sunsets and stars his hand shakes as he hangs up the phone, turning away from the window.

The sunset he's watching right now is a pitiful thing — a grey sun sinking into a grey sky, just beneath an indistinct grey horizon. He sighs, resisting the urge to call Clint back and ask him more about it.

Though the most detailed description in the world wouldn't help, really, because Steve doesn't even know _how_ to picture it. His time will come, though.

Someday.

Someday he'll have someone to watch the sunset with, someday it'll be him, excitedly talking on the phone to a friend, telling them about what a wondrous place this world is.

Standing up, Steve shrugs on a jacket.

What good is there in waiting, he decides, when that very person is out there somewhere?

Steve steps outside, into the fading sunlight he'll soon be able to truly see.

* * *

Bucky only decides to go out because the boredom and insufferable waiting has him on the brink of losing all hope.

He keeps his head down, though, not wanting to look at the monotonous world around him.

Everyone speaks of red and blue and yellow and orange, and it's not fair.

Because all Bucky sees is charcoal and slate and heather and _blandness._

He's told himself a thousand times not to question it. His time will come. Sooner or later, though he really hopes it's sooner.

Bucky decides to lift his chin, stopping his dead-eyed gaze towards the ground.

Insipid as this world is, he might as well face it head-on.

* * *

The woman at the bar is beautiful, and smart, and charismatic — Steve's been waiting for her to look his way for the past hour.

She's talking with some friends, an ethereal smile painted on her darkened lips.

Something feels off, but Steve can't help but wonder. He walks over, conjuring up a smile of his own.

Perhaps hearing is approaching footsteps, she turns around —

Steve hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until now, as it all escapes him in a deflated sigh.

As the world remains as it was before, even as their eyes meet.

She offers a beckoning hand. Steve returns with a wave goodbye.

* * *

Bucky doesn't know how, but he's ended up at the bar and is currently on his third — or is it fourth? — drink.

It's far too sour, and rather diluted, if he's being honest with himself, but he doesn't really care. Some people who have come past have offered him smiles, waves, winks, words of greeting, but when nothing happens, they all move on.

Perhaps that's what Bucky should do, but he's been sitting here for a few hours now and can't get himself to leave, for some reason.

He orders another drink.

The barista slides it across the table to him, as a voice beside him says, "I'll have the same, it's been a rough night."

Bucky turns to offer his condolences, but freezes as the man's eyes meet his.

"Steve Roge—" he starts to introduce himself, then falters.

His gaze intensifies, and it's all Bucky can do not to fall apart right there.

For those eyes —

He knows it the moment he sees it.

 _Blue._


End file.
